A Life Less Ordinary
by sweet little nightmare
Summary: AU. In a world where nothing is how it should be, the youngest daughter of Elphaba and Fiyero is determined to make things change. But when a mysterious visitor comes to Kiamo Ko, it seems that the girl’s imaginings are about to become reality...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Wicked.**_** Because, contrary to common belief, I am NOT the most talented person alive (:**

**Summary: AU, musicalverse with hints of bookverse. In a world where nothing is how it should be, the youngest daughter of Elphaba and Fiyero is determined to make things change. But when a mysterious visitor comes to Kiamo Ko, it seems that the girl's imaginings are to become reality...**

Chapter One

My Whole Family are Lunatics...(including me)

So, Mother caught me out again today. I'm not a liar – I'm really not. Okay, so I do tend to exaggerate every now and again, and I do love to tell stories, but I'm really not a liar. Not unless it's a situation where I absolutely, completely and utterly HAVE to be (like the time when I accidentally destroyed my sister's weird tapestry thing – she likes to _sew,_ of all things).

Seriously. But nobody ever believes me! Today, I was telling Mother all about how it _really_ wasn't my fault that I got sent out of Dr. Bloom's lesson today (apparently, I "take after my father"), but would she believe me? No. Luckily, though, I escaped too much of a talking-to because Chistery dropped a pomegranate on her head and she went off to yell at him instead.

Chistery is our monkey. Our _flying_ monkey. Bet you can't beat that for 'interesting pets'.

Anyway, this book is my punishment for being constantly in trouble in school. Dr. Bloom handed it to me this afternoon after the incident where I told him a Pig had more intelligence than him (only he didn't realise I was talking about a Pig, and not an ordinary pig, so he got even more annoyed than I'd expected). "I want you to fill this book by Lurlinemas," he told me, "write about whatever you want, but make sure you write in it every day. And I want to see that you_ have_ been writing in it. Hopefully this might just improve your work-ethic."

So here I am, sitting at the dining table in Kiamo Ko (I live in a castle. Oh yeah!) and writing in this book. Only I can't think what to write.

Mother suggested I draw in it. But Dr. Bloom wants me to _write._

Liir, my brother, who's sixteen, suggested I just write gibberish. "Bloom's never going to read it," he said, "so he won't know any different." But to be honest, I can't see the point of that.

My sister, Nessa, who at fourteen is one year older than me, thought I should use it to write poetry. For some reason, Nessa seems to think I'd be really good at this, though I've no idea why.

But I don't want to write poems or gibberish and much as I wouldn't really _mind_ drawing (it'd be less torture-full – is that even a word? – than writing, anyway) I don't think Dr. Bloom would be all that happy with me. So I'm writing a Journal (which, secretly, I've always thought would be quite a good idea, if I could ever be bothered to get round to doing it). I guess now's the time...

Right. Well. I hear you're supposed to introduce yourself at the start of these things, so here goes: My name is Fiera Melena Tiggular (my first name is a variant of my father's name, Fiyero, and Melena was the name of my mother's mother). My mother is Elphaba Thropp. The Wicked Witch of the West.

No, really.

Probably, the last you heard of her was that she was dead. Melted by water. Which is a load of rubbish, of course. What _really_ happened went something like this:

My mother escaped Oz, helped by the Scarecrow who used to be a prince named Fiyero. They hid in the woods for years and then eventually journeyed to the castle of Kiamo Ko in the Vinkus. My mother didn't sleep for days, because she was so hell-bent on finding a way to make Fiyero human again. Eventually, she managed it with a new spell of her own that almost killed her. She was really, terribly ill for a while, but she finally got better and she and Fiyero were happy together. They had a son, Liir, and a daughter, Nessa, and everything seemed pretty damn near perfect.

Then, not even a month before I was born, Fiyero went out someplace (my mother doesn't remember where. She doesn't remember much from that time) and never came back.

Liir thinks he was recognised and killed. Nessa thinks he went off to the Emerald City to give himself up to the Wizard ("How tragic!" she says, every time she talks about this).

Me, I don't know what happened. I'd like to think he's still alive somewhere, but that's what Nessa calls 'wishful thinking'. Nessa's the 'sensible one'.

Mother doesn't believe that my father is dead, though she has no idea where he might be. She talks to him sometimes, when she thinks we can't hear. She sits there staring at nothing and says things like: "You know, Fiyero, I don't think there will ever be a day when our family will be safe from persecution". Liir says she's "off her rocker".

I said I didn't think she was mad – just dreaming.

The people in our village know who we are, but they haven't told the Wizard we're here. At first, Mother tells us, they kept quiet out of fear of what she'd do if they tried to hand her in to the Wizard, but Fiyero spoke to them and tried to convince them that the Wicked Witch really wasn't all that Wicked. They didn't believe him at first, but then some woman came in desperation to my mother with her dying son, and my mother saved the boy using her magic. Since then, the villagers don't mind us so much, and when my father went missing, some people even comforted my mother and helped out with me when I was born (Mother didn't have much time for me at first, her being so grief-stricken and all that). We're sort of accepted here, though people leave us alone mostly. At least we know we're safe.

But – and I know this is really stupid – I don't want to be 'safe'. I don't want to hide. I want people to stand up to the Wizard and put a stop to all of this. I want to prove that my mother is not the Wicked Witch everyone thinks she is, and I want to find my father.

When I'm old enough, I _will_ do those things. Not just because I want to get rid of the evil Wizard, but because I want an adventure.

"_Sometimes,"_ says my mother tiredly when I tell her this, _"You remind me so much of your father. But when you say things like that, you remind me of myself."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Wicked, but I do own a copy of the book by the wondrous Gregory Maguire!**

Chapter Two

Quite Possibly the Longest Day of My Life

"Outlandish," Nessa reads from the dictionary, in that annoyingly formal voice she uses for reading things out, "adjective. Strange, eccentric, often to extremes."

"Outlandish," I repeat, mimicking her voice, "definition: _Mother."_

"Fiera!" says my sister, lowering the book to stare at me in annoyance.

"What?" I widen my eyes innocently, "I'm only being honest. She _is_ outlandish. How many people d'you know who have mothers like ours?"

"_You_ are strange," says Nessa, closing the dictionary and returning to the essay she's writing for school. I don't know what it's about, and I don't care, but Nessa seems pretty interested in whatever it is. She's scribbling furiously, her head bent low toward the page. It's so quiet, I swear I can hear the scratching of her fancy fountain pen against the paper.

"I'm bored," I announce, stretching my arms up over my head, "let's do something."

Nessa pretends not to hear me.

"Nessa!" I scrunch up a piece of paper into a little ball and aim it carefully at her head, "come _on. _Stop working!"

Finally, she looks up at me, her mouth a straight line. "You just made me smudge the whole thing!" she complains, "and I don't want to do anything right now. I'm working, and don't _you_ have work to do?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I do," I say blithely, "but I'm not doing it."

Nessa rolls her eyes. "You," she mutters, "are _irrepressible."_ 'Irrepressible' is her favourite word for me. I learnt from her that it means 'impossible to influence or control' or something like that.

"And," she adds sourly, "you're never going to be good at anything, if you don't try."

I put on my best sad face. "Nessarose Glinda Tiggular," I say, pretending to feel wounded, "I can't believe you think so little of me!"

She snorts disbelievingly. "I'm just saying –" she starts, but I interrupt quickly, cutting her off before she can go into one of her lectures.

"What's the point of homework and lessons?" I ask her, "When we aren't ever going to be able to get real jobs. Come on, who's going to employ the Wicked Witch's kids? And besides, I'm not interested in –" I wave my right hand vaguely – "all that stuff."

The kitchen door bangs open and Liir strolls in, back from helping some villager fix the roof of his house, which was destroyed in last week's storm. My brother, with his dark eyes and shiny black hair, looks a lot like Mother, though without the green skin of course. Thankfully, we've all inherited our father's Vinkun tan instead of our mother's verdigris (that's her word for it, not mine, by the way).

"Well that was a waste of time," says Liir, sitting down beside Nessa and putting his feet up on the table without bothering to take off his boots, "all we did was move things around."

"You got paid for it though," I point out, but Liir doesn't seem to think this matters all that much.

"So?" he folds his arms irritably, "it was still a waste of my time."

I can't see that much point in arguing with him, and I'm about to change the subject when Liir says suddenly:

"You know the Cedar family? The ones whose roof I was supposedly helping to fix?"

Nessa and I both nod.

"What about them?" I want to know, "they're sorcerers? They've got a secret shrine to the Wizard? They're keeping a dragon in their yard?"

"For Oz's sake, Fiera," Liir sighs exasperatedly, "can't you _ever_ be serious?"

_Liir_ is very serious – not sensible, like Nessa. Just solemn and serious.

"What?" I ask him, "It could happen."

Nessa closes her eyes for a moment. _Dear Lurline,_ I imagine her praying, _please give my sister some common sense._ "No," she says aloud, "it couldn't. Go on, Liir. What were you going to say?"

"They've got a picture in their house," he tells us, "of Mother and Glinda the Good, standing together before the Wizard... like they were going to fight him, or something. Mrs Cedar painted it herself, when she was younger."

"Really?" this gets my attention, "but I thought Glinda the Good was on the side of the Wizard."

"So did I," Liir adds, looking just as confused as I do.

But Nessa, to both of our astonishment, puts in quietly: "They used to be friends, you know, Mother and Glinda. I hear her talking about her, sometimes, to..." _to Fiyero. My father. Who is not there._

"She talks about _Ga_linda," I point out, "not Glinda the Good. It's not the same name."

"They are the same person," Nessa confides, "she told me, when I asked who this Galinda was. She talks about Galinda and Boq and Nessarose and Morrible, you see. And I know who Nessarose was, of course, and I've heard of Morrible, but I didn't know who the other two were. Galinda _is_ Glinda the Good – she changed her name in honour of some Goat professor or something like that."

Liir looks mildly surprised, but me, I'm out of my seat in seconds, pacing up and down and trying to get to grips with the idea. Mother, friends with Glinda the Good? Yeah, that's likely.

"Why didn't you mention this before?" I want to know.

"Because," Nessa says calmly, "I didn't think it mattered all that much. It was years ago."

"Why aren't they friends anymore?" I demand, "Why does Glinda the Good still stand by the Wizard?"

Nessa pauses for a moment, remembering, before answering me. "Glinda believes that Mother is dead," she tells me, "because no one could know that the Wicked Witch wasn't really dead, you see. And she stands by the Wizard, I expect, because she believes there's nothing else she can do."

"So," I conclude, "she's even more of a coward than that Dorothy's cowardly Lion was."

Nessa looks horrified that I'd even dream of suggesting such a thing. "Glinda the Good is no coward, Fiera," she responds hotly, "she is trapped in a world where she has no option but to bow to the Wizard's Will."

"Yeah, yeah," I mumble, "thanks for the lesson. I'm going to see mother." And with that, I turn and rush off out of the room and up the spiral staircase to the room at the very top of the castle – the tower where Mother sits night and day, practicing new forms of magic in the hope that they will help her find her missing husband.

_Elphaba_

_A person does not just simply vanish into thin air. It just doesn't happen – _

_Charm for creating illusions! Huh! What do I want with that? No, no, no. I don't think so. Oh, for Oz's sake!_

"_Oh, stop it, Chistery! Stop fussing! I'm trying to concentrate!"_

_Damn monkey. He's in my way more and more these days. It's almost as if he's trying to get between me and whatever spell I need to help me find Fiyero. And there _must_ be a spell that can help me do that, I'm sure. I just need the right words..._

_What's this? Wait, I'm sure I've read this before. Yes, I certainly have. It didn't do anything whatsoever._

_Someone is knocking on my door._

"_Come in!"_

_It's Fiera, I know without even bothering to turn and look at her. Since when do my children feel the need to knock?_

"_What is it?" I ask, still not looking at her._

"_Is it true you used to be friends with Glinda the Good?" she steps into the tower room and walks over to me, standing directly in front of me so that I cannot avoid looking at her._

"_Yes," I inform her shortly, "a long time ago."_

"_Why?" she asks, her blue eyes alight with curiosity, "What was she like? Did she really help you when the Wizard was being all evil and all that?"_

_All evil and all that? When is he not?_

"_She helped me as much as she could, I suppose," I say grudgingly, flipping pages in the Grimmerie. Perhaps if I re-ordered the words from this spell just so...?_

"_How did you end up being friends with her?" Fiera wants to know. She lounges against the edge of the table at which I am seated, leaning over so that the ends of her tangled dark hair brush the top of the page I am studying._

"_Not now, Fiera. I'm trying to concentrate," I mutter tightly, repeating the words I used with Chistery not ten minutes ago. Will I ever get any peace?_

"_But Mother," she persists, "you told Nessa all about it!"_

_It seems that my youngest has inherited my stubbornness as well as her father's refusal to take life seriously and thirst for excitement (well, honestly, the latter I suppose she gets from the both of us)._

"_If I answer your questions," I bargain, looking up at her, "will you leave me in peace?"_

_Fiera nods, then jumps backwards as a pair of winged monkeys – neither of them Chistery – swoop low toward her and then veer off to one side, cackling. "Stupid monkeys," she says, but she sounds more amused than annoyed._

"_I met Galinda of the Uplands when I was at Shiz University," I start, then stop abruptly. My daughter is looking not at me but at the monkeys circling ahead. "Do you want me to tell this story or not?"_

"_Oh, you're telling a _story?"_ Fiera perches on the edge of my work table, "go on then!"_

"_I knew Galinda of the Uplands when I was at Shiz University," I begin again; "we were roommates, which neither of us was very happy about at first. We hated each other for the longest time, but somehow – I don't even really remember the reason now – we ended up becoming friends. Galinda was one of the more popular girls, and though she wasn't as mean as some of them, she was so shallow and superficial that I had little time for her at first. She and I were both in love with Fiyero – your father – and until the day he and I escaped Oz together, I don't believe he ever really _chose_ either of us. Not properly, anyway."_

_Fiera listens raptly; there is none of her usual fidgeting or staring at the ceiling going on._

"_We had to let Glinda believe we were both dead," I continue. This is why I have retold my memories as a story – so that I do not have to relive the pain of them, "She couldn't know the truth, because much as she was dear to me, I did not believe Glinda would keep our secret if she was threatened. And so I haven't seen her for many years now, and she still believes me dead – melted by water."_

_My younger daughter is staring at me, wearing a look that I cannot quite place. It seems to be the strangest mixture of sadness and excitement and wistfulness – the sort of stare that could belong only to a dreamer. For the first time in a long time, I look back at her – properly look at her, I mean. Her face is angular, fine-boned, like mine, but her eyes are the vibrant blue of her father's. She looks as though she is poised on the very edge of life, waiting to fly._

"_Aren't you lonely?" she asks finally, "sitting up here all alone every day."_

_My breath catches in surprise. Of all the things – this is the last I would have expected her to say! Lonely! It doesn't even occur to me to feel lonely. I have forgotten what loneliness feels like._

"_I am too busy to be lonely," I tell her._

_Fiera considers this. "Everyone says you're mad," she informs me, "even Nessa and Liir think it. You talk to someone who isn't even there, and you almost _never _come out of this room to talk to us."_

_For a moment, I feel the sting of this comment, coming from my own child, but then I brush it aside. The world already thinks me wicked. Let them think me mad, too! I don't care!_

"_Come downstairs," Fiera pleads, taking a different tack, "come and have dinner with us. You can't spend your whole life sitting up here doing spells!"_

_Try as I may, I cannot avert my face from hers, "I am trying," I grit out, "to find your father."_

"_You've been trying for thirteen years," says Fiera, "you have a life, and you're wasting it. Something tells me Fiyero wouldn't want that."_

_I do not know what makes me do it, but suddenly, I am out of my chair and my hand is whipping through the air. Fiera reels back from the sharp slap I have dealt her, her face blankly bewildered._

"_Go," I manage, "just go." I do not want to look at her. I do not want to hear her words swirling around in my mind like a curse._

_Without a backward glance, she flees._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Wicked;**_** I'm not getting any money from this fanfic, yadda-yadda-yadda...**

Chapter Three

A Stranger Arrives

"You know, I _still _don't get what I did wrong," I tell Liir, "all I said was that Fiyero wouldn't want her to be wasting her life. What's wrong with that?" We are in one of the outhouses, and Liir is making a new fishing rod (his old one broke) while I sit on an old red blanket on the stone floor.

"I don't know..." my brother scrunches up his forehead in a frown, thinking, "Maybe she just didn't want to be preached to by a thirteen year old." He's completely focused on what he's doing, not even bothering to look up at me. Just like Mother.

"No," I insist, "that's not what it is. _I _bet she's mad because she knows I'm right, and she hates admitting it."

Liir shrugs his shoulders jerkily. "Maybe," he mutters.

Suddenly, I can't be bothered having this conversation any more. What does it matter, anyway? She's not going to come downstairs and start behaving like a normal person (ever!) so I might as well just forget about the whole thing. No point in worrying.

"You know," I change the subject, "I _am _going to go to the Emerald City one day, Liir. Really."

Liir looks up at me, startled. "What?" he says distractedly. "Fiera, don't be stupid."

I _hate_ it when people say things like that to me. Okay, so I may not be the most intellectual person in all of Oz (probably not even in all of the Vinkus, actually) but I _have_ a brain.

"I'm not being stupid," I explain, "listen, Liir: nobody would know I was Elphaba's daughter. It's not as if I'm green or anything. I don't even really look like her. I could be anyone. It's not like the Gale Force are going to jump out and grab me the moment I get there."

"Ok, whatever," my brother nods, going along with me, "so let's say you get to the Emerald City. What do you plan to do once you're there?"

"Find Glinda the Good," I tell him without hesitation, "and explain to her who I am. I'm sure that once she knows everything Mother went through, she'll want to help. And I bet Glinda has lots of supporters of her own – she can rally them in a resistance against the Wizard!"

Well, anything is possible, isn't it?

Liir, though, doesn't seem to think so. "Let's think about this," he says in that I'm-Being-Reasonable voice of his that I find so annoying, "the Wizard ordered a naive young girl to _kill_ Mother. He ordered his Gale Force people to take Father away and torture and kill _him._ He's pretty ruthless, this Wizard, and we all know he's powerful. It's not as though he'd think twice about... _disposing of_ any rioters."

I'm determined, though, to make him believe – even just a little bit – in my Grand Plan. "But things are different now," I reason, "and I'm not Mother. I'm me. I'll handle things differently than she did."

Liir shrugs again, picking up his fishing rod once more. "Let's not talk about this," he says flatly, "there's no point anyway."

"Fine," I scramble to my feet, "I don't want to talk to you any more anyway. You're boring me. I'm going outside."

"All right," says my brother vaguely, back at work, "enjoy the sun."

_Elphaba_

_If you were here now, Fiyero, I don't think you'd be particularly happy with what I just did. I've never really seen you angry, but I imagine if there was ever a time for that, it would have been just then. I never meant to hit her, not really. It just happened. As time goes by, more and more things happen in my life that I can't control._

_Actually, if you were here now, none of that would have happened anyway, because I wouldn't be sitting up here searching for a way to bring you back to me. If you were here we would be a family._

_I have a confession to make: our children don't really see much more of me than they do of _you._ I rarely leave this room, and I don't exactly invite company. They are old enough to look after themselves, and for a long while I have thought this to be a good thing, giving me more time to pore over the Grimmerie._

_Oz, I'm turning out to be – dare I say it? – perhaps a worse parent than either of mine ever were. Which is saying something. Although... (and this is what I tell myself to keep the guilt at bay) at least I do not plague their lives with blame and misery. At least I leave them alone._

_A part of me knows that Fiera is right. You would not want me to spend the rest of my days shut up in this little tower, desperately trying to find you. But the other part of me is certain that there _must _be a way, and I cannot sleep at night knowing that I haven't used every waking moment trying to find that way. There is some spell, I am sure of it. Some chant or incantation. And I won't rest until I've got it._

_I wonder exactly what I will find when I _do _finally find you. Will I recognise you? Will you be surprised to see me? Are you even alive? That is a ridiculous question. I _know_ you are alive. I believe that even more ardently than I believe anything._

_Forgive me, Fiyero. Forgive me for not letting you go._

Fiera

Kiamo Ko is high on a hill. From here, you can see all of the little village below, and much of the vast, empty desert surrounding it. We are... what was that thing Nessa once said?... Oh, yes. We are "a lonely island in a sea of gold." I don't think it looks all that lonely, really. I just think it looks boring. All that yellow-orange sand stretching out endlessly.

Nothing ever happens here. There are no museums or theatres or universities in the village. There are no wide, bustling streets and magnificent, swankified ballrooms. Every day is the same.

I wish we weren't in hiding because of the stupid Wizard! I wish we could go away somewhere – anywhere. Okay, maybe not Munchkinland, because I hear that's mostly fields, but you know what I mean.

I stand at the top of the hill – Castle Hill, as it's called by the villagers – and wonder what to do. I could walk down into the village, but what would I do once I get there? I get on pretty well with my classmates, but I don't have any particular friends I could go and see. I don't want to go back inside the castle, and I'm certainly not doing any _work._

Completely at a loss, I wander a little way down the hill and then sit down in a dip in the dusty ground, looking out over the desert land. The brightness of the sun makes it easier to imagine you can see things that aren't really there, and I picture a huge, splendiferous, immensical city with glittering towers and brightly coloured flags and music so loud that I can hear it from here. I've almost managed to kid myself into thinking I'd only have to run down the hill and I'd be right there, in that wonderful place, when I realise that a small, hunched figure is making its way up our hill.

It takes me a few moments to realise that this figure is not part of my imagination. I blink, and my wonder-city vanishes, but the person is still there, shuffling purposefully onwards.

It seems we have a visitor.

I jump to my feet and start on my way down the hill, walking so fast I'm almost running. It's an old woman, I realise now. Her hair is silvery-white, and the reason she looks so small is that she's bent almost double.

"Good afternoon," I greet her in a loud but polite voice (I'm not sure how well she can hear), "are you on your way up to Kiamo Ko?"

The woman raises her head to look at me. Her eyes, set deep in a face with more folds and wrinkles than I'd have ever thought possible, are blacker than black, and they glitter like the crystal towers in my fantasy city.

"Why, yes," she says in a creaky, breathy whisper that I have to lean very close to catch, "yes I am. Might you be Fiera, the Witch's daughter?"

A hard jolt of surprise goes through me. How does she know who I am? How does she even know that my mother is not dead?

"Yes," I tell her, forcing myself to sound calm and collected like Nessa, "and if you don't mind my asking, who are you?"

"I am Yackle," says the woman, "and I am a prophetess."

"Right," I nod vigorously, "right. Er... Do you know my mother, then?"

The prophetess Yackle looks right at me, her lined face split into an enigmatic smile.

"We've met," she tells me.

**A/N: Are you all intrigued? I sure hope so! Please, please review!**

**By the way, Fiera's name means 'wild' in Spanish. I found it on a name database on the internet, and thought it would be a good one to use because it sounds so similar to Fiyero.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, blah blah blah...**

**A/N: Unlike the other chapters so far, this one is not in the first person, and it is set in the Emerald City. Its quite a short one, but it reveals rather a lot. Enjoy!**

Chapter Four

There They are Hiding

_There are not many of them now, not that there ever were really. But these days, there cannot be more than a dozen of them. They are indistinct shadows who flit between the tall, brightly coloured buildings. They have learnt, this past decade, how to blend into the background. The people of the Emerald City know that they are out there, somewhere, but they do not know where._

_What to call them? They are not revolutionaries – almost ten years since they escaped, and they haven't done a thing to stand up to the Wizard – so what are they? Escapees? Although they have escaped the Wizard's prison, they are still prisoners of a sort, forced to hide in derelict buildings and skulk in back-streets._

_Ghosts. That is what they are. They are not dead, but they may as well be. And there is a certain maudlin mystery about them that does make one feel as though there is a veil of sorts between your bright world and their shadow-lives._

_And so this is what the citizens of the Emerald City call them: The Ghosts._

_This particular spring morning, a woman loiters by the stage door of the crumbling building that used to be the City Theatre Royal, before the Wizard decreed that a bigger, better version of the place be built. Her russet hair is a matted snarl, and her skin is grubby. There are fine lines bracketing her eyes – premature laugh-lines that do not come from laughing._

_This is Loret Njavak, the mute Ghost. As punishment for her loudly flamboyant declarations of the Wizard's evil, he robbed her of her voice before locking her up in the Keep._

_Loret's wide green eyes dart here and there and, seeing no one, she pushes open the red stage door (which is hanging off its hinges) and slips inside. Blinking as her sight adjusts to the darkness, she moves slowly along the passageway that leads to the stage. Nothing moves. Silence hangs in the air like a dust-ridden blanket._

_The stage is an expanse of emptiness. Loret's feet patter across it as she hurries toward the stairs that lead to the upper Circle. She climbs the stairs quickly, her keen eyesight discerning the lithe, flickering shapes in the dim half-light._

_She passes by two other Ghosts with a small smile. There is only one person she wants to see. As usual, he is sitting apart from the others, his thoughts far away. Some of their number believe he is immortal, because the Wizard's men killed him once before, years ago, and yet here he is now._

_Neither of them say a word. Loret Njavak sits down beside Fiyero._

_His blue-eyed gaze slides abstractedly toward her for a moment, and then away once again._

_The other thing they say about him is that he is mad. Completely out of his senses. And indeed, it's clear to Loret that he is in a world of his own, but she does not think he is crazy._

_Loret's left hand goes to her heart, while her right extends outwards, palm facing forward. Sign language._

_It means: _I am with you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: You know the drill, me no owny... tra-la-la...**

**A/N: Okay, hope you guys enjoyed the little Emerald City chappie (I have big plans for Loret, muahahaha) but it's back to the Vinkus for this one – here goes!**

Chapter Five

Things in my Life get Stranger... And Stranger...

It takes us a long time to get up the hill (I know old people are supposed to be slow, but this takes the cake!) and I pass the time by firing questions at our visitor.

"So, how do you know my mother?"

"Oh, we met," Yackle repeats vaguely, "a long time ago."

It doesn't seem like she's going to give me any more information than that, so I move on to a different subject.

"Did you know my father, too?"

Yackle shakes her head. Oh, ok. That's another topic of conversation she's cut dead within the first few seconds. Good job, old crone.

"Where have you come from?" Surely she's got to answer this one. It's not like I'm going to hunt down her family and kidnap them or something.

"Here and there," she cackles. She's actually enjoying this, the old hag. Well, she won't shut me up that easily.

"So, if you know my name, does that mean you know my brother and sister's names as well?"

Yackle nods briefly. "Of course."

"Prove it!"

"Oh all right, all right. Temper, temper! Their names are Liir and Nessarose, I believe."

"Well," I say grudgingly, "yes. What else do you know about us?"

I can't see Yackle's face amid the wild tangle of silvery-white hair, but I'd be willing to bet that she's got a big ugly grin spread all over it. "Many, many things," she says mysteriously. _What_ she finds so fun about annoying me, I'll never know.

"Like...?" I prompt, refusing to give in.

Yackle says nothing. I'm not sure whether she's ignoring me outright or just pretending not to have heard me.

"Oh, come _on,"_ if she doesn't give me a good answer this time, I'm going to run up to the castle and leave her to toddle along on her own, "do you know how old I am? Do you know what my favourite colour is?"

No answer.

"Do you have a crystal ball that tells you all this stuff? Are you a mind reader?"

Still no answer. Oz, this is getting tiresome!

"What's with all the secrecy?" I want to know, "Why come here and then refuse to tell me anything?"

Finally, the old woman looks up at me. "I have come here on matters far more important than such trivialities as your age or your _favourite colour, _child." Her creaky, old voice is full of contempt.

"What matters?" I can't help asking. "Why _are_ you here?"

The prophetess lurches toward me, and for a moment I think that she is going to hit me like Mother did. What she does instead takes me so much by surprise that all I can do is stand there and stare at her wordlessly. She reaches out and grips my arm, her eyes latching onto mine with a furious force I imagine I can physically feel, it's so strong.

"Little girl," she says croakily, "things are going to start happening. Things you have no choice but to be a part of. Your life is changing." The dry desert wind blows strands of her long, knotted hair up into my face, and her grip on my hand is surprisingly hard for someone so old. It hurts.

"I'm not a little girl," I tell her sharply, wrenching my arm out of her grasp and rushing off ahead of her toward Kiamo Ko, without a backward glance. I'd never admit it to anyone, but Yackle scares me. Somehow, I can tell that she knows things. She's got magic. A different kind of magic to Mother – and I'm not sure it's good magic, either.

But at the same time, even though I'm scared, there's a feeling of excitement and expectation that begins to come over me. It's a... how can I describe it? It's a tingling sort of feeling. Like sparks dancing all over me, but it's not unpleasant – it's just weird.

_Your life is changing. Your life is changing. Your life is changing._

I cannot get those words out of my mind.

_Nessa_

_I am still sitting at the table, finishing my schoolwork, when the heavy wooden door bangs open and Fiera bursts through it, skidding to a halt in front of me._

"_We've got a visitor," she says breathlessly, "an old woman named Yackle. Says she's a prophetess."_

_A prophetess? I raise my eyebrows._

"_She probably wants money," I say dismissively, "you know 'if you pay me substantially, I'll tell you everything you wish to know about your future'. That sort of thing."_

_But Fiera shakes her head, her dark curls flying in every direction. "No," she tells me, "she says it's important. I think she's come from a long way away... She says she knows Mother."_

_Knows Mother? How? She'd have had to have known her a long time ago – she never leaves the castle, these days. But I don't say any of that out loud. "Where is she?" I ask instead, closing my book and gathering my papers together in a neat pile._

"_She'll be here in a minute, I suppose," my sister says, "I ran off ahead. She was... well... she was annoying me."_

"_Fiera!" I scold, the way a parent would do, "that's so rude! Why didn't you wait for her?"_

"_Like I said," Fiera says slowly, as if I'm stupid or something, "she was _annoying _me. And I wasn't going to hang around and wait. Anyway, I'm off to get Mother – she should come downstairs; this Yackle person is definitely too old to be climbing all the way up to the tower."_

_And with that, she dashes off out of the room, yelling at the top of her voice: "Mother! Some old lady named Yackle is here to see you!"_

_I suppose I had better stay where I am, to greet the poor woman when she gets here, because my idiot sister has run off and left her. Typical Fiera._

_From somewhere above my head, I hear raised voices, and the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs. Before long, I am joined in the kitchen by Mother, her mouth a thin, tight line, and her eyes frantic. Fiera trails close behind her._

"_Yackle? Here?" Mother begins pacing. "What does she want with me? Old crone! Her prophecies are nothing but trouble! Why is she here? What in Oz does –?"_

_But whatever she is about to say, she doesn't get to finish it, because the outside door creaks open and into the kitchen shuffles a huffing, puffing figure, her spine as curved as a question mark. This, I presume, is Yackle. And, judging by the look of horrified recognition on Mother's face, the old woman really is who she claims to be._

_**Elphaba**_

_Nessarose is nothing if not hospitable. She makes tea for Yackle – some kind of herbal concoction that the hag laps up gratefully – and attempts to make small talk with her. It's useless, of course, because Yackle is the last person in Ox (excepting myself, perhaps) who would ever make small talk. When she has finished her tea, the prophetess turns to me and asks:_

"_Is there a room in this grand castle of yours where we can talk alone?"_

_I nod curtly and make my way briskly out of the room, gesturing for her to follow me. "Fiera," I say to my youngest, glancing at her over my shoulder, "don't even think about following us and eavesdropping. Yackle will know you are there."_

_For all I know, Yackle might not be able to tell any such thing, and even if she could there would be no reason why she should tell me about it, but Fiera doesn't need to know that._

_I lead her, of course, to my tower room. She is out of breath and grumbling by the time we reach my sanctuary, and this only adds to my satisfaction. I know that Yackle does not bring good news, though I can't think what news it is she _does_ bring. Is it about Fiyero? Is he alive? Where is he?_

_I motion for Yackle to sit, but she declines. We both remain standing._

"_Why have you come here?" I cut to the chase immediately, "what have you to tell me?"_

"_I have seen," she says, lifting her face to look at me, "I have _seen..."

"_Well, what?" I enquire impatiently, "what have you seen?"_

"_The Wizard's time in power may be coming to an end," says Yackle slowly, relishing every word, "there will be chaos. There will be death. There will be danger. And at the end of it all, is either the end of the Wizard – or the end of all hope."_

_There is no air in this room. I cannot breathe. My legs are melting beneath me, and in moments I will fall. What is this? What is she saying? Is there to be a... a... a revolution?_

_This is the last thing I would have thought she'd say. I was anticipating a completely different scene. I am not prepared for this._

"_Perhaps it is you," says Yackle wryly, presumably noticing my expression, "who needs to sit down."_

_I steel myself and shake my head resolutely. "I am fine," I tell her, "so there is to be a battle of some sort, is there, against the Wizard?"_

"_I suppose you might call it that," she responds cryptically._

"_Well, am I to be a part of this battle, then?" Already, I have accepted that this _will _happen. Yackle's prophecies are never wrong. Not in my experience, anyway._

"_You shall do your bit," she agrees, "you shall have your moment, Elphaba of the West. But for the moment, it is Fiera whose fate I am watching."_

_I cannot help it; in a mannerism that is completely un-Elphaba-like, my mouth falls open._

_I close it abruptly._

"_Fiera?" I echo, dumbfounded. "She's a child!"_

"_Perhaps so," Yackle nods, "but perhaps that is why she will play her part so well. An impulsive little thing, isn't she? She would throw her whole self into any undertaking without a single thought to the consequences, if she were passionate enough about it. And headstrong, too – I doubt she'd give up easily. And besides, have you forgotten, _Dorothy _was only a child. Younger than your girl, if I remember rightly."_

_Dorothy. The name still sets my insides roiling with a mixture of disgust, pity and hatred. Horrible combination._

"_What is she to do?" I want to know, moving quickly on._

"_She is to journey to the Emerald City," replies the old woman, "I can tell you no more than that, but if you wish for the Wizard's fall, and if you are to have any hope of ever seeing your lost love again, then you will let the girl go. And you will not follow her – not yet, in any case."_

_My mind is quickly performing the necessary evaluations. So... my daughter's life will, like as not, be put at risk... but at the end of it all, Fiyero may be returned to me?_

_Forgive me, both of you._

"_Then," I tell Yackle, "tell Fiera what you will. I won't stop you."_


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I have absolutely no rights of ownership when it comes to **_**Wicked. **_**If I did... oh, the possibilities!**

Chapter Six

I Finally Begin My Quest

"I wasn't _going _to follow them!" I protest, the moment that the kitchen door shuts behind Mother and Yackle, "I had absolutely no intention of eavesdropping!"

"Yes you did," replies Nessa matter-of-factly, "it isn't difficult to figure out how your mind works, Fiera."

"Yeah, yeah, we all know you're the one who inherited Mother's incredible brains," I retort, slumping into a chair, "_and_ her beauty," I can't help adding snidely.

For a moment Nessa's face is blank with confusion, until she realises that I was being sarcastic. Nessa being Nessa, though, she doesn't fly into a rage.

"Don't be such a witch, Fiera," she says sulkily.

"I'm not a witch," I remind her, "and I don't plan on becoming one any time soon, either. From what I can tell, magic doesn't get you anywhere. What do you suppose Yackle wants to speak to Mother so badly about?"

"I don't know... perhaps... Oh! Fiera! Fiera, listen!"

"What? Calm _down,_ no need to yell! I am listening."

"You don't suppose –" my sister pauses for dramatic effect, "you don't suppose this Yackle woman knows where Father is, do you?"

"No chance! If she'd found him, why didn't she just bring him along with her – save Mother the trouble of trekking half way across Oz to find him?"

"Oh, Fiera, don't be so _stupid,"_ sighs Nessa, "what if he can't leave wherever he is for some reason? What if he's a prisoner? It's not difficult to imagine, is it?"

Why does _everybody_ insist on calling me stupid? It's never bothered me all that much before, but lately it's really starting to get on my nerves. "I don't suppose it is," I reply in the most acidic tone – there you go, 'acidic tone', that's not a phrase that a stupid person would use! – I can possibly muster, "after all, if it was that difficult to imagine, you wouldn't be able to think of it, since you have no imagination at all!"

Well, it's true. She's definitely much cleverer than me, but Nessa's got the imagination of a pickled slug... Unless, of course, I'm mistaken and pickled slugs do in fact have a whole lot of imagination. In that case, she has _much, much less_ imagination than one.

"What do I care?" she snaps back at me, "what do I need _imagination _for?"

I can think of a hundred and one answers to that, but I don't think there's any point in trying to convince Nessa. She's as boring as a potato, and I guess she always will be, which is kind of a shame since she can be really nice when she wants to be.

I stand up, and Nessa rolls her eyes at me. "Where are you going _now?"_ she wants to know, "you're always rushing off. Can't you stay still for one minute?"

"No," I reply cheerfully, doing my level best to ignore the fact that it seems to be Lets-Have-a-Go-at-Fiera day, "not unless the person I'm talking to is really _interesting - _" hint, hint – Anyway, I'm going outside to tell Liir all about Yackle."

I'm in the middle of telling Liir what Nessa said about Yackle maybe having found Father, when Nessa herself comes walking briskly out into the courtyard towards us.

"It's time for dinner," she tells us, "and you aren't going to believe this..."

Liir and I gaze at her expectantly.

"What?" I demand, "What? What is it?"

"Mother is eating dinner with us," Nessa announces, much to my amazement, "she and Yackle are sitting at the table right now."

"Really?" I push past her, "Seriously? This I have _got _to see!"

I'm half expecting her to have made up the story as a ploy to get us to hurry along inside, but when I enter the kitchen I'm surprised to see that Nessa was completely telling the truth. Mother and Yackle sit in awkward silence side by side, each gazing straight ahead into nothingness. I'm so not used to seeing Mother about the house, it's as though she's a stranger in her own kitchen.

Nessa has made some kind of broth for dinner. It's a murky beige and slops around unappealingly on my spoon. There's no way in Oz I'm eating that.

Nessa, once again deciding to act like _she's _my mother, says sternly: "I hope you aren't wasting that, Fiera!"

I'm about to tell her exactly what I think of her attempt at dinner, when Mother's voice chimes in unexpectedly:

"Oh, leave her be, Nessa. Don't fuss so."

Don't _fuss? _Oh Yackle, great evil wise one, who is this intruder and what have you done with my real mother?

The rest of dinner is quiet and tense. We eat little, and talk even less. Afterwards, Liir and I clean up (this is our daily duty, just as Nessa's is to do the cooking), and Nessa goes off to read, Liir heads back outside to continue doing odd jobs (I don't get why my brother seems to love doing odd jobs so much, and I never will). Mother shows Yackle the way to the guest room, then shuts herself back in her tower with all the monkeys, leaving me quite bored and unsure what to do next. Which is how, once again, I end up writing in this book.

That night, I have the strangest dream. Strange and terrible.

I am lost in a maze of streets, and there are green-and-gold clad men racing after me. I cannot look back, and yet all the while I know they are there. After a while, I stumble over something and, scrabbling to find my feet again, I realise that the thing I have stumbled over is a body. A dead body. It is a young woman, pale and grand, wearing the most beautiful pair of shoes I have ever seen. _Aunt Nessarose._ The cold shock of recognising the corpse of someone I have never met sets off a horrible rolling feeling in my stomach, but I pick myself up and carry on running. Again, I stumble, and again, it is because of a dead person, this one a black-haired man so small that I'm sure he must be a Munchkin (he can't be any taller than me). I don't have time to wonder who he is, because the men who are after me are drawing closer, and I must run.

The third time it happens, the... the dead body is again that of a man. He is lying face-down on the ground, and suddenly I am gripped with a desperate need to know who he is. My arms reach out, of their own accord, to turn him over so I can see his face, and I am barely aware of what I am doing. Like the other two before him, this man is definitely dead. I know this with absolute certainty, though I have no idea _how_ I know it (there is not a mark on any of them, not even the figure who I'm sure was Aunt Nessarose, and everyone knows how _she _really died). But, unlike the two others before him, his eyes are open and glassy.

And they are the exact same bright shade of sea-blue as my own.

I wake with a start, sitting bolt upright in the darkness, as breathless as if I really had been running. That man in my dream... that man in my dream... He was my father, wasn't he? What does all this mean? Is he really dead? Should I tell Mother about the dream? It didn't feel like any ordinary dream...

"You need answers, child?" a harsh, croaky whisper floats toward me from the direction of my doorway. I squint into the gloom, and can just make out the hunched figure of Yackle standing there.

"Answers about what?" I ask, swinging myself out of bed and rummaging through the mess on the little table by my bed for a candle and matches. I can feel the old woman's eyes following my every move.

"Your dream, of course," she replies, as if it was obvious.

I find the matches, and strike one to help me look for the candle. Yellow-orange light flares in the purple shadows of my room.

"How do you know about my dream?"

"I know many things," she responds, infuriatingly vague as ever, as I finally find the stubby cream-coloured candle in its brass holder and light it, blowing out the match. "I take it you are wondering what it was all about?"

I nod. "Are you going to tell me?"

"I cannot tell you the meaning of your own dreams," she explains, "they are personal to you. I could have the same dream and it would symbolise something completely different to me. I can, however, tell you that there was no truth in it."

"I'd figured out that much myself," I mutter, "Aunt Nessarose has been dead for years, for one thing."

"But not your father," she points out, "and not the man with no heart – the Tinman – Boq. Those deaths can be avoided, if action is taken."

"What do you mean? What are you trying to tell me?"

"I mean, daughter of Elphaba, that Fate has chosen a path for you, and if you take it, and you succeed, many lives will be spared. Lives that, otherwise, would perish."

Wow. Melodramatic, isn't she? What is she talking about?

"What path?" I want to know, "what am I supposed to do?"

Yackle's lined face twists into what I can only assume is a smile. "Why, what you always wanted to do," she tells me, "you must go to Lady Glinda, and you must tell her everything. And you must make haste – unrest is brewing in the Emerald City."

**A/N: And so it begins... hope you're all as hooked on this story as I am! (By the way, my computer won't let me edit Nessa's middle name out of Chapter Two, so just for the record, it ISN'T Glinda - thanks to Maeline for pointing out the unfeasability of this, though)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Ok, I'm not using ANY of this story for any profit, so I don't need any more disclaimers after this one :)**

**A/N: Thought we'd pay another little third-person visit to the 'Ghosts' in the Emerald City for this chapter. Enjoy!**

Chapter Seven

The Ghosts and the Dead

_When Loret is returning to the old theatre from the City Market, laden down with things she has managed to take, unnoticed, from the stalls, it begins to rain. It's only a light drizzle at first, but by the time she reaches her destination it is pelting down in sheets, and she is completely drenched, her hair plastered to her head in sodden tendrils, and her clothes completely saturated. Shivering, she stumbles through the stage door and hurries along up to the Circle._

_A man by the name of Gregor Inigo is in charge of provisions. Loret spies him talking to a gaunt, grey-haired woman she can never remember the name of, and hastens toward them. Tapping Gregor on the shoulder to get his attention, she holds out the rough-hewn sack full of stolen food._

"_Excellent, Loret," he says, taking the sack and scrutinising its contents, "as ever."_

_Loret responds with a smile, and the sign for 'Thank you', but the grey-haired woman is tapping her foot impatiently, so she excuses herself hurriedly with a brief nod, her sharp eyes scanning the shadowy recesses of the upper circle for Fiyero._

"_He's over there," Loret whirls round in surprise to face the owner of the voice-over-her-shoulder, "talking to some of the other men."_

_Indeed, there is a cluster of solemn-faced men standing off to Loret's right, conversing in low, urgent voices. And, sure enough, Fiyero is among them. Loret's eyes narrow and her brow creases into a frown. Like her, Fiyero never speaks to anyone (though, unlike her, it's through his own choice that he remains silent)._

"_Something's wrong," the speaker, a small, sharp-featured woman named Elina, continues, "I don't know what, though. No one does – except them." She gestures toward the men._

_Loret shrugs a 'how should I know' shrug._

"_Valir Lorlen came rushing up here not twenty minutes ago," Elina recalls, "insisting he had to speak to a few of the men. Only the ones he specifically said, mind. No one else was allowed to hear."_

_Loret's eyes seek out Valir Lorlen. He is that sallow-skinned man half hidden by shadow, and his face is a mask of shock and... What else? What is that? Sorrow? Grief? The three men he had demanded to speak to are standing around him, enclosing him in a semicircle of secrecy._

Whatever is the matter?_ Loret wonders._

_**0-o-0-o-0**_

"_What are we to do?" Kirr Herren frets, "we can't just stay in here and hide!" Kirr is a tall, burly man with a scrubby brown beard. Ten years ago, he had helped lead the Ghosts in their escape from the Wizard's keep, but years of skulking in the shadows have made him bitter and short-tempered, and lost him any of the admirers he might have had for showing such courage._

"_What are you saying, Kirr?" Valir demands tightly, "you want to risk your life? You want to end up dead like my Iora?"_

_Iora is Valir's wife. Or rather, she _was_ his wife, until she was discovered by members of the Gale Force earlier that afternoon and hauled off to be killed, while Valir looked on helplessly, hidden._

"_Six years," says Kirr, "six years since the last time one of us was discovered and killed – until today. We are good at not being found. I'm sorry for your loss, but we shouldn't let this scare us!"_

_Valir looks like he does not quite know how to respond to that. He's about to retort that it's all very well for Kirr to go around acting all fearless – _he_ isn't the one who has just watched his wife be taken away to be murdered._

"_You're a fool, Kirr, if you aren't afraid of the Wizard and his Gale Force."_

_Kirr, Valir, and the third onlooker – a mild-mannered man named Jair – all fall silent in astonishment. Simultaneously, they all turn to stare at the man who has spoken. The supposedly immortal prince; the lover of the Wicked Witch of the West; the man who hasn't spoken a word to them in all the time they've known him. It's like hearing the voice of a character from an old myth. None of them can quite believe it._

"_What?" Kirr demands, his eyes bulging, "What did you say?"_

"_You heard what I said," his voice is hoarse and barely louder than a whisper, hardly recognisable after so many years of disuse. The words – even so few – are an effort._

_Kirr Herren is unimpressed. "I am no fool, _Prince _Fiyero," he says in his own booming, gravelly voice, "it is _you_ who is a coward. A lowly, stupid, mad -"_

_But Mr. Herren's lengthy insult goes unfinished, for the next thing he knows, he is knocked to the ground by a bedraggled red-haired woman, flying at him in unbridled fury._

_Loret Njavak._

_If she had a voice, Loret would doubtless be screaming something along the lines of "How dare you!" but as it is, unable to so much as whisper her disgust, her mouth is stretched wide in a silent shriek. Every eye in the upper circle is upon her as she lays into Kirr with bony fists that are a poor substitute for the words she longs to fire at him._

_It is Fiyero who, with some difficulty, manages to pull Loret away from Kirr. Loret's flailing arms go still, dropping limply to her sides. Her face, by now, is streaked with tears. She is crying for all the things she cannot say; all the things she can never tell him._

But perhaps_, she thinks, as he pulls her gently closer, silently comforting her, _he knows those things anyway.

Yes, perhaps_, she consoles herself, her sobs slowly subsiding, _we need no words.

**A/N: Voila! – Chapter Seven! So we now know that Loret is madly (yes, madly!) in love with Fiyero. Oh dear, oh dear, this isn't going to end well...**

**Please review, folks!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Back to the quest it is! Sorry for the delay, folks, I've been having a few problems with my computer**

**Also, this chapter is for Emma, for reading all this story even though it isn't her usual sort of thing! Enjoy the madness! :D**

Chapter Eight

I Travel the Crone-Express of Supreme Slowness

I get the feeling that packing for such a grand adventure should be a careful and painstaking process, but that doesn't stop me from shoving random objects haphazardly into an old brown leather satchel in a matter of minutes. If I happen to have forgotten something, I'll just have to do without it. It's hardly likely to be a matter of life and death, anyway, is it?

It's only when I'm done packing and just about ready to leave that I realise I'm still wearing my nightgown. I throw on some clothes hurriedly and make my way – as quickly and quietly as I can – out of my bedroom, across the wide landing and down the staircase. It's so dark that I'm certain I'm going to miss a step and go flying (I blew out the candle and left it in my room, not wanting the light to wake anyone), but to my surprise I reach the bottom of the stairs unscathed. In the kitchen, I empty half of the larder cupboard into the satchel, until it is overflowing with bits of bread and cheese and things, and I'm about to leave through the door that leads from the kitchen into the courtyard when Yackle's harsh voice startles me yet again.

"You're not going alone, you know," she says, stepping out from a shadowy recess near the door, "you need me to tell you what direction to take, and if I stay here there will be questions when they find you gone."

For the first time, a little pinch of guilt worms its way into my mind. "Shall I leave them a note? Won't they be worried?"

Yackle shakes her head, tendrils of ratty white hair swinging like rope. "We must make haste."

Haste? With the speed she walks at? That's a laugh.

_Elphaba_

I do not know what to do with myself today. If Yackle's prophecy is to be believed, I can do all the spells I want and I still will not find you. Knowing that your fate – and whether I will ever see you again – rests with our youngest, is absolute torture. And yet knowing for certain that you are still living fills me with a new hope. My thoughts speed ahead, wondering.

Nessa knocked on the door of my tower room this morning, saying that she could not find Fiera anywhere. Nor Yackle, she had added as an afterthought, but she didn't seem particularly bothered about her.

I tried to act concerned, even left this room for a while to go and search for her, but it was difficult pretending to be troubled when I know exactly where Fiera has gone. I'm not accustomed to this _acting._

I remember Fiera saying she would go and look for you one day, you know. It was on one of those increasingly rare days when I had ventured into the rest of the castle, and was teaching Nessa about Lurlinism. It was a long while ago; Nessa would have been, oh, about nine years old, perhaps.

Anyway, Nessa and I were sitting at the kitchen table when Fiera rushed in from the courtyard, her black curls tangled and her clothes as rumpled as ever. She looked very excited about something.

"I've had an idea!" she announced, interrupting my conversation with Nessa. Nessa and I both turned to look at her, Nessa glaring at her.

"What is it?" I had enquired, humouring her.

"You know how Nessa's going to be a teacher or a grumpy old woman, and Liir's going to marry a pretty girl and fix people's houses? Well, I know what I'm going to do when I'm older, now!"

"And what would that be?" I'd asked her lightly as Nessa glowered at her for the 'grumpy old woman' comment.

"I'm going to go to the Emerald City," she'd stood there, head held high, looking more serious than I'd ever seen her look before, "I'm going to go on an adventure and find Father."

I'd forgotten all about that day, until this morning. I wonder if Fiera has forgotten about it, too. You will be so proud of her, when you meet her. She is just as brave and determined as you always used to say I was, and she loves life so, just like you. Of the three of our children, she is the only one who inherited your carefree nature, and sometimes (like when I hear her trying to persuade Nessa into 'doing something fun', or when I receive complaints from her teacher about how restless and disruptive she is in class) I am reminded so strongly of you that a cold, hard knot of pain forms right where my heart should be.

Will you still love me, when you discover what I have done? Will you understand why I had to let her go on this madcap quest? Last night, I dreamt that you were with me, but your eyes were full of hurt and disappointment, and I knew that you would leave me again.

Fiera

We have to walk and walk until we find another village, because Yackle says that no one in our village is to know of my 'departure', as she called it. She's so slow, and although the days are hot here, the nights are bitterly cold. I'm freezing, trudging along beside her while she shuffles silently on. I wish she'd say something. Doesn't she get bored of all this silence?

"Are you coming with me to Lady Glinda's?" I ask her, and she shakes her head. I can't help breathing a sigh of relief. Yackle is creepy, boring and slower than a snail. I'm glad I don't have to put up with her all the way.

"I bet Glinda's house is huge," I carried on, "and I bet it's all grand and that, inside. She's probably got about a zillion servants. I bet her son is a spoilt brat. I'll probably end up arguing with him."

"Did you know, child," Yackle puts in suddenly, much to my surprise, "Glinda and your father were once married."

Married? Glinda the Good was married to my father?

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," says Yackle gravely, and it sounds so odd hearing her say 'seriously' in that way that I want to laugh, "their wedding was the talk of Oz, and was attended by thousands. I myself, as it happens, was there," she chuckles to herself, remembering, talking more to herself now than to me, it seems, "She is a skilled actress, Lady Glinda, not like your mother. Glinda looked like the happiest woman alive that day, but she couldn't fool me... as for Fiyero, well, I am sure he tried his hardest, but in all honesty he looked quite obviously uncomfortable with the whole thing."

All I can do is to stare at her stupidly. Wow. Not just 'oh, Oz, my father was married to Glinda the Good' wow, but 'oh, Oz, this is the most I have ever heard Yackle say' wow.

And my life gets stranger and stranger, yeah. If you're like Nessa (no offence) and you prefer things to be all normal, close this book right now. I'm guessing things will probably get even weirder.

"What happened?" I demand, "Why did he leave her? Was she horrible to him? Was she so obsessed with her mirror that she forgot all about him? Everybody knows that she loves herself. Oh, I know, I bet she snored! And I bet she was bossy..."

Yackle is still chuckling that wheezing old-lady-chuckle. "Don't be so silly, child," she shook her head, "he left her because he was in love with your mother. Possibly the stupidest thing he ever did, if you were to ask me... Certainly didn't do himself any favours... only got himself tortured and nearly killed by those Gale Force lackeys of the Wizard... yes, yes, don't fall in love child, not if you want to live 'til you're my age, anyway."

"But Lady Glinda was still in love with _him?"_ I guess, ignoring Yackle's annoying babble, "is that why she won't stand up to the Wizard? Because she's mad at Mother for taking Fiyero away from her?"

"Yes and no," says Yackle in that I'm-so-mysterious-and-I-will-annoy-you way of hers, "yes and no."

Well, the sooner we get to the next village so I can jump on a cart and go off to Lady Glinda's Gillikin house, the better. Yackle has _got _to be the weirdest, most irritating old bat in all of Oz!

**A/N: My oh my, I would hate to travel with Yackle! Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this chappie! In the next one we'll meet Glinda the Good and Lord Chuffrey, her husband (I got him from the book). Disclaimer-in-advance: I don't own them, but I do own their son... muahahahaha...**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Ok, folks, prepare to meet Glinda the Good and family... I'm sure you'll find them **_**perfectly **_**charming and hospitable. Ahem.**

Chapter Nine

I Travel with a Nameless Maniac and Arrive at the Home of Glinda the Good

Okay, so I admit it. Adventures aren't anywhere near as fun as they're supposed to be. So far, I've narrowly escaped a horrible death by boredom, travelling with Yackle; I've managed to hitch a cart-ride from the sleepy village of Irilt to Gillikin with a grumpy old lunatic who speaks in grunts and won't even tell me his name, and now I'm on my way, sitting in this rickety old excuse for a cart which seems to seek out rocks and deliberately bump over them. Not really my idea of a good time.

Still, it could be worse; Yackle could have changed her mind and decided to come along for the ride.

"Why d'you want to go to Gillikin, anyway?" I ask curiously as the cart trundles out of the village. At this point, remember, I don't yet know that No-Name is going to be quite so much of a bore as Yackle, and I'm hopeful that I might finally get to have a proper conversation with someone during this part of my journey.

"Passing through," he mumbles, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. He's got a thick, scrubby grey beard that's almost long enough to tuck into his belt (if he had a belt, which he doesn't), and his face is such a violent shade of pink that for a moment I wonder whether he, like my, er, _wonderful_ teacher Dr. Bloom, is a Pig in disguise.

"Where _are_ you going, then?" I want to know. He doesn't answer, and I tap him on his shoulder to get his attention.

Next thing I know, he whirls round in his seat, his eyes narrowed and his fists tightly clenched. "Don't!" he growls at me. "Don't. Make. Me. _Jump!"_

So I'm now travelling with yet another crazy person. Good to know.

"Okay, okay," I tell him quickly, "sorry. And by the way, your horses are trying to turn round and go back the other way."

"For Oz's sake," No-Name glowers at me and turns around quickly to steer his horses back in the right direction, "now look. All your stupid fault, girl!"

"My name's not Girl," I tell him helpfully, "it's Fiera."

"Eh," he says, paying absolutely no attention to me. I only just stop myself from leaning forward and waving a hand in front of his face to get him to start listening, but then I remember how he just went all Maniac-Pig Man on me a second ago, and suddenly it doesn't seem like such a great idea.

"Wake up, girl! We're here!"

I blink slowly and the world swims into focus. It's a whole different world to the one I'm used to, one with rolling green fields and a light breeze and an actual _road_ on which to travel. The air is much crisper and cooler here than the endless, stifling heat of the Vinkus, and even than the muggy warmth of Outer Munchkinland, which we passed through yesterday.

We've been travelling for six days, now, but it feels more like forty-six.

"We're where?" I ask, a bit idiotically, sitting up and stretching my arms up above my head. Carts, it turns out, are not the most comfortable places to sleep.

"Your stop," No-Name informs me in his gravelly voice, bringing the horses to a standstill.

I peer about me, looking this way and that. There are houses in the far distance, but nowhere nearby. "This isn't where Lady Glinda lives," I point out, "there's nothing here."

No-Name laughs harshly. "Not going out of my way to take you all the way to her door," he says, "what d'you think you are, a princess?"

Ha. Not in so many words.

"Actually," I tell him with a smile, "my father's a prince."

"Yeah, yeah," No-Name mutters, "aren't they all? Now unless you want to go to Quadling Country, I'd get down now."

I grab the bag containing my few possessions and jump down from the cart. It's a slightly longer drop to the ground than I thought; a sharp, quick pain shoots up my legs and I almost end up stumbling into the side of the cart.

"I don't even know how to get to Lady Glinda's estate," I remind him, "where is it?"

He smiles crookedly. Oh, _now _he lets on that he actually knows how to smile. That's nice. "Follow the road," he grunts, "you'll know it when you see it."

No-Name might have been a Maniac-Pig Man, but he was right about one thing. You can't possibly miss Glinda the Good's estate. And you'd have to be _completely _brainless (not just mildly stupid, like I apparently am) not to realise who lives there.

For one thing, it's really, ridiculously fancy. And when I say fancy, I _mean _fancy. It's a massive, white building with a pair of huge, pastel pink double doors and some of the most complicated, swirly architecture in all of Oz (well, I haven't even been all over Oz, but still, I bet it is). The gardens are absolutely full of flowers, flowers of every kind, and the smell is overpowering and a little sickly.

It's completely overwhelming, but not in a 'wow' kind of way. More like 'ew'. Maybe if it wasn't so _girly..._

Ok, not the point. Quest now, architecture critique later. Or probably never, in fact, since I don't want to be an architect.

There's a path made of little white pebbles which leads right up to those pink doors, and I practically run up it, I'm so completely sick of everything taking so _long _these days. I go skidding to a halt and pound on the door several times. In fact, I'm still knocking impatiently on it when it swings open and I almost go stumbling head-first into a grey-haired woman wearing a neat, pale blue dress made of some kind of shimmery, silky material I've never seen before.

"Um," I say, oh-so-intelligently, "you're not Glinda the Good."

"No," the woman replies stiffly, "apparently not. And who might you be, young lady?" Her eyes travel steadily from my muddy, dusty boots to my crumpled outfit of simple brown trousers and a white shirt (well, it _was _white, now it's more of a murky grey colour) to my bedraggled hair and slightly puzzled face. It dawns on me suddenly that I haven't been able to wash since I left Kiamo Ko. I probably smell worse than the flowers.

"I'm..." _not sure who in Oz this snobby lady is, and I'm certainly not sure whether I can trust her, _"I'm the daughter of one of Lady Glinda's friends," I explain vaguely, "I thought I'd, um, drop in and surprise her." As an afterthought, I can't help adding, "And who are you? Lady Glinda does live here, doesn't she?"

"Yes," she says curtly, "she does. But Glinda the Good does not have any friends in the Vinkus, not that I'm aware of, anyway."

Any friends in - ? How does she know - ?

Oh, right. Dark hair? Check. Tanned skin? Check. Blatantly been travelling for miles? Check. Where else would I be from?

"You aren't really the child of one of my Lady's friends, are you?" the woman continues, wrinkling her nose, "you're a little vagrant, aren't you? A little homeless urchin of a child. Well, I'm afraid we do not take in waifs and strays at Chuffrey Grounds."

"But I –"

"I'm sorry, child. Why don't you keep going 'til you reach the city? Perhaps someone there will give you a few nights' board."

She looks at me expectantly, like she thinks I'm going to give up and go away.

Well, I'm the daughter of the Wicked Witch of the West. _Nobody _is going to get rid of me that easily.

"I'm not an urchin!" I fold my arms and try to imitate the Don't-Mess-With-Me expression that my mother is so good at, "I _have _a family, and I have a home, thank you very much! I need to speak to Glinda the Good and I need to speak to her now. Why don't you let _her _decide whether I can come in or not? You're probably just a servant, anyway!"

Oops. Something tells me that wasn't really the right thing to say.

"I'm no lowly servant, I'll have you know!" the woman spits at me, "I'm Master Cassian's governess!"

Master Cassian. That must be Glinda the Good's son.

"Now be gone with you!" the governess screeches, "and don't let me catch you skulking around here again, you nasty, primitive little savage!"

Well. I have really had enough of crazy people today.

I'm about to argue back, when the high, clear voice of another woman rings out from behind Madam Snob.

"What in the name of Lurline is going on?" there are quick footsteps, high heels clattering on the marble floor, and the speaker comes up behind the governess. I know straight away who she is. She's as fancy and pink as her house (though thankfully not as smelly) with a bouncing cloud of blonde hair, and a beautiful, slightly round face that sparkles with about a ton of make-up.

"Lady Glinda!" the governess turns to her and dips her a brief curtsy, "this young hooligan has just accused me of being a lowly servant and demanded to see you! The very audacity of her! She is quite, quite wild."

"I'm not wild! –" I start, my face going pink with anger and embarrassment, but Glinda the Good cuts in smoothly.

"Oh, don't be horrendible, Miss Myrta;" she tells the governess in her fluttery voice, "I am sure this child has only come to seek my help. She won't do any harm."

"But, Lady Glinda, allow me to explain! I told the girl we do not take in waifs and strays –"

Lady Glinda's eyes widen. "Why ever not? I did not achieve my title by being selfish and ignorant. I am Glinda the _Good."_

At this, Miss Myrta bows her head. "Of course, of course. I'll leave you to deal with her as you see fit, my Lady." And she bustles off down the wide hallway.

Ha. What a suck-up. How does Lady Glinda put up with her?

"Now, my _dear_ child," Glinda fixes her bright, greenish-blue eyes on me, "Tell me, what is your name?"

I look right back at her, take a deep breath and tell her:

"My name's Fiera. And Elphaba Thropp is my mother."

**A/N: I swear you'll get to meet Cassian in the next chapter, honest! It's just that Fiera's journey to Gillikin and her meeting Glinda went on for longer than I expected.**

**Anyway, hope ya'll are still hooked :D Reviews are loved!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Ok, on with the story! Big thank-yous to everyone for all your reviews! Fiera is somewhat smug that you find her amusing **

**:D**

**Also, I'm trying to put together a playlist for writing this story, of songs which fit the characters and situations. If anyone has any ideas, I'd be glad to hear them – I'll post the playlist at the top of the next chapter and you'll know if any of your songs were chosen! :)**

Chapter Ten

In Which Glinda Has a Lot to Catch Up On

_Glinda_

"My name's Fiera," the girl says, meeting my gaze, "and Elphaba Thropp is my mother."

Just like that, all my breath rushes out of me in a big _whoosh._ I'm perfectly certain that I'm going to faint. It can't be true. It simply can't. Elphie is dead.

I am vaguely aware of the girl's eyes still fixed on mine as I stumble backwards with none of my usual grace. How humiliating. I am forced to lean back against the wall, crushing the back of my dress, in order to stop myself from falling.

"I know what you're thinking," she carries on quickly, "Elphaba died. She got melted by the water Dorothy threw on her. Well, that's a load of rubbish. Nobody gets killed by water... Well, unless they drown, I guess, but that's different. Anyway, she didn't die; she and my father just went into hiding. In Kiamo Ko... you know? The castle? In the Vinkus?"

"Your... your father?"

"Yes," she says grandly, seeming almost to relish my shock and confusion, "Fiyero."

"Don't tell such terrible lies," I hear my own voice as if from a great distance, "I _know_ Fiyero is dead. The Gale Force tortured him and..."

"Glinda," the girl's voice is full of determination and conviction, "I'm not lying." Her eyes, so very blue, still have not left mine.

So very blue.

"You have his eyes," I say.

Then the world whirls away from me in a sickening blur and I slide to the ground in a dead faint.

_Cassian_

My father is such a dolt. As Mother would say, he's horrendible. He's a pompous, boring, horrendible fool.

He says I must learn politics, and hunting, and other such rubbish. Me, I want to read about science and sorcery and go work in the Emerald City. Maybe for the Wizard. I'd have fortune and fame and knowledge, and I'd never have to come back to this infernal place. Not ever!

My mother, for some reason, disapproves of this plan. I don't see why. After all, I'm the son of Glinda the Good – why not aim high?

"Mother!" I call out, descending the stairs in a fit of fury, "you must tell father to stop trying to decide my future for me! It's really getting beyond a –"

Abruptly, I stop talking. I stop because my mother is slumped in a heap against the wall at the end of the hallway, and a skinny, angular figure with matted black hair is leaning over her.

I do not hesitate.

"Get away!" I shout, rushing down the last of the stairs, "get away from my mother!" I run at the stranger and knock him flying, hearing with satisfaction a dull _thunk _as his head hits the floor with impressive force. I pin him down, glaring into his face with as much menace as I can muster –

And realise that it isn't a _him _at all. It's a _her. _A dishevelled Vinkun girl in boys' clothing_. _She blinks dazedly up at me out of startlingly blue eyes. "What did you do that for?" she demands, "get off me!"

"What," I clutch her shoulders hard, forcing her to stay down, "did you do to my mother?"

"I didn't _do _anything," she retorts, struggling, "I told her my mother was the Wicked Witch of the West, and my father was Prince Fiyero Tiggular, and then she fainted."

_That _gets my attention.

I let go of her and she struggles into a sitting position, gingerly touching the back of her head.

"You're not green," I observe, and then curse myself inwardly for being such an idiot, "the Witch was green."

"So?" she counters, "_you_ aren't blond, but your mother is."

"Not the point," I snap, coming to my senses, "the Wicked Witch can't be your mother, because she got killed by Dorothy nearly eighteen years ago, and you're, what, eleven –"

"Thirteen!" she interjects heatedly. Only a year younger than me, then.

"– and as for your father being Prince Fiyero," I snort, "That's ridiculous too. The Wizard's Gale Force killed him for being a traitor and fraternising with the Witch."

"I'm telling the truth!" she insists, "Do you really think a _bucket of water _would kill anyone? Especially a powerful witch. She faked her death so she could escape the Wizard! Oh, and my father, he was... uh... ok, now this is going to sound really stupid, but just listen, ok? Right, you know the Scarecrow that helped Dorothy? Well, what happened was, when the Gale Force took my father away to kill him, my mother did a spell that stopped him from dying, but the only bad thing was it turned him into a, well, a scarecrow. Don't laugh! Seriously. Anyway, like I was saying, after my mother faked her death they escaped and hid out in the old castle, and my mother did all these spells to try and make him human again, and eventually one of the spells worked... and yeah. Then they had kids."

She says all this at incredible speed, almost in one breath, gesturing expressively with her hands the whole time. I simply sit there and listen incredulously. The whole thing is ridiculous. This girl is out of her mind, clearly.

Well, either that, or this is a really poor attempt at a trick.

"How can I prove it to you?" she asks, noticing, I suppose, that I don't look convinced. "I don't even know all the details myself! My mother won't talk about it."

How convenient.

"Leave her be, dearest," my mother's voice startles both me and the stranger, and I jump up and hurry over to her while the girl staggers upright, swaying a little on her feet. Perhaps she hit her head even harder than I thought.

"Mother!" I exclaim, "What in Oz happened?"

"Oh, I had the tiniest of funny turns," she responds, "after all, it isn't every day you hear that The Wick- I mean Elphie, is alive. And Fiyero," she adds, an odd little sigh in her voice, "how is he, by the way?"

"Um," says the girl, "he sort of... kind of disappeared."

My mother's eyes widen, shining with – wait, are those _tears?_ "Disappeared?" she repeats softly.

The girl nods. "About a month before I was born, he went out somewhere (Mother doesn't remember where) and never came back. But he's still alive – that loony prophet lady Yackle says so. I have to go to the Emerald City to find him."

"You really believe her?" I ask my mother, sceptically, "You really think she's telling the truth? And if she's the daughter of the Wicked Witch, how can you be so sure she's not wicked as well?"

"You have a look of Elphie, you know," she says, marvelling, and completely ignoring me, "it's the shape of your face, I think. Yes. Elphie had – has? – a pointy sort of face, as well. But your eyes are exactly like Fiyero's. It's absolutely spookiferous."

Spookiferous is not a word. My mother is doing that thing again, making up words of her own. I wonder if she thinks it makes her sound intelligent.

"Um, Lady Glinda," the girl says, "I've got quite a lot to talk to you about. You've got loads to catch up on –"

"Oh, there's no hurry," Mother says, suddenly brightening, "we can talk later. First of all, dear, we need to get you cleaned up. You look so drab and dirty. Cassian, be a darling and go and tell your father we have a guest!"

Fiera

As if this day could get any stranger, I've just been attacked by a flying idiot, and now his mother (who happens to be Glinda the Good) is leading me up a flight of stairs, talking chirpily in my ear. She's not very tall, not all that much taller than me, but she walks with a bounce in her step that somehow gives her the appearance of having a little more height. She's kind of beautiful, I have to admit, but I think her clothes make her look a bit ridiculous.

"Don't mind Cassian, Fiera," Glinda is saying to me, "he gets angry terribly easily, especially with his father. They just don't see eye-to-eye, I'm afraid. You see, Cassian's father – you'll meet him in a bit, I expect – is a person who enjoys the finer things in life, like I do. But Cassian, he's much more practical. He's always got his nose stuck in a book – he reminds me a little bit of Elphie, actually, in that way."

_Yeah,_ I can't help thinking to myself, _if you think my mother's a big-headed twerp like him, then sure._

"I suppose you're like that, too," she babbles on, "all smart and serious. I bet you love to read, being Elphie's daughter."

I shake my head. "What's the point?" I ask her, "There are more interesting things to do. Like _life, _for example."

"Oh, you're perfectly right, dear, of course," Glinda says, "though I don't know if your mother would agree."

"Not really," I shrug, "she's all serious. She thinks if she sits up in her tower and does spells all day, Fiyero will come back to her. Nessa says it's tragic. I think it's just stupid."

"Nessa?"

"Oh, she's my sister. She's a year older than me, and she's even more _sensible _than Mother..." I go on to tell her all about Nessa and Liir, and life at the castle. I tell her about how I've always wanted to have an adventure, how I never really saw that much point in sitting around in Kiamo Ko or going to school. I bring her up to speed on Yackle's prophecy, and I even tell her the dream I had. Glinda the Good listens entranced, nodding every once in a while and saying something like 'Oh, how horrendible!' or, at one point, 'if you don't watch it, my dear, you're going to end up with a simply scandalicious reputation, just like your father'. Whatever that's supposed to mean.

And then, when I'm done telling Glinda everything, I decide it's my turn to listen to an interesting story.

"Glinda," I say, when we're sitting in what Glinda calls her drawing room, and I feel cleaner than I've ever felt in my whole life from all the weirdly scented soaps in Glinda's bathroom, "will you tell me about when you knew my parents?"

**A/N: So, you've met Cassian, and Glinda now knows that Elphie and Fiyero are alive...**

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter, folks!**

**Reviews are loved, and Cassian is eager to know what you think of him (well, he says he doesn't care, but **_**I **_**want to know.)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Sorry about the wait, folks; I've been really busy lately, and Cassian hasn't been so co-operative in telling me his story! :) Anyway, enjoy!**

Chapter Eleven

A Very Eventful Dinner with the Chuffreys

So guess what? I have a secret identity!

Well, not _really, _I guess, but it's still kind of exciting, keeping all these secrets from Lord Chuffrey, the husband of Glinda of the Ghastly Dresses (er, I mean, Glinda the Good). You see, Glinda doesn't think telling her 'dearest, darlingest hubbie' that The Wicked Witch of the West is alive and kicking (well, not so much kicking as sitting in a dusty tower room all day) is such a good idea. She says that Normande Chuffrey likes his gossip, and he certainly won't be able to resist telling one of his poker friends or his hunting friends about the oh-so-shocking news that the WWOW ("Wow?" I'd asked Glinda, and she'd laughed her tinkling laugh and replied, "No, silly, it stands for the Wicked Witch of the West") is alive. And of course, one of them might tell someone else, and so on, and eventually the Wizard is bound to find out.

So we've got a cover-story. It goes like this: my mother was a Gillikinese girl from a respectable family, whom Glinda was friends with at Shiz University. After they left Shiz, Glinda didn't hear from my 'mother' for many years, and during that time dear old Ma had married a man from the Vinkus and gone to live with him. Then, not long ago, my parents – we've named them Ettine and Jair, in case Chuffrey asks – were killed by a gang of bandits (that bit was my idea!) Of course, it just so happened that I'd heard Ettine talking about her friendship with Glinda the Good several times in the past, so, having no other family to go to, I set out to find her.

My name is still Fiera, though, so I suppose I haven't exactly got a secret identity, which is a bit of a bummer. It'd be much more exciting if I had to have a fake name as well, but Glinda says it doesn't matter that I'm sort-of named after my father. "After all," she had said, "I bet Jair would have wanted to honour the late Prince of his tribe, who died so tragically young." Which is a good point, I suppose. For someone who _acts _sort of stupid, Glinda's actually quite smart. Only a bit, though. Not as smart as my mother (my real one, I mean). Probably not even as smart as my sister.

Well, she might not be smart, but she's fun. She tells me all kinds of stories about when she was at Shiz with my parents, like the time she gave my mother that stupid black hat to wear to the Ozdust Ballroom, and she didn't realise Glinda was messing with her and _wore it anyway. _It all sounds like wonderful fun, with all these parties and everything, until she gets to the bit about her and Elphaba meeting the Wizard. Then the whole fairytale kind of fell on its butt and turned into a tragedy.

"I wish I'd been there," I tell Glinda, when she's in the middle of telling me about the day she married my father.

"Why ever do you wish that?" Glinda wonders, "It wasn't as happy a day as I'd always dreamed it would be."

"Well, yeah," I say, "but practically everyone in the Emerald City was there, all just for you, and I bet it was an amazing party." I've always wanted to go to a party like that. Not that there's ever been much chance of that, unless I was supposed to dance with Nessa and Liir and a bunch of flying monkeys.

Glinda giggles. "I'm sure you will, one day," she says. Then she goes, "well, you haven't got Elphie's book-smarts, have you? But at least, unlike dear Elphie, you seem to know how to enjoy yourself." She does that weird little wishful sigh again, like Nessa does when she's goggling at that friend of Liir's she _says _she doesn't like all that much. "You're like your father. You're... what was it he said again? Oh, yes, dancing through life."

Dancing through life? Hmm. I like it.

"Oh, sweet Lurline above!" Glinda says all of a sudden, "we'd better be getting downstairs for dinner! Time flies when you're having a good old girly chat, doesn't it?"

I scrunch my face up at her retreating back as she heads down the stairs. _Girly chat?_ Really.

_Cassian_

My father and I are sitting in steely silence at opposite ends of our long, impressive dining table, pointedly not looking at one another, when Mother sweeps into the dining room in a swish of chiffon and perfume. Following just behind her is the Witch's daughter (or, the girl who _claims _to be her daughter, anyway), looking somewhat less grubby and bedraggled than she'd looked earlier. She stares at me unabashedly, as though she's trying to figure me out. It's enough to make anyone feel pretty uncomfortable.

"Normande, dear," Mother trills, "this is Fiera. She's the daughter of a dear old friend of mine. Fiera, allow me to introduce my husband, Lord Normande Chuffrey."

Father's dark eyes look her briefly up and down. "Lovely," he responds in a tone that somehow manages to be both brisk and pompous at the same time, "it's a pleasure to meet you, young Fiera." To Mother, he adds conversationally, "I didn't know you had any Winkie friends, Glinda darling, 'dear old' or otherwise."

"What's the matter with you people?" Fiera's voice is light, at odds with the seriousness of her question, "your housekeeper person was the same, you know. Miss Myrtle or whatever her name is. Is everyone in Gillikin this stuck-up?" I can tell she's trying to make what she's saying sound casual and half-joking, but it doesn't quite come off that way. Father's face goes beet red, and even Mother looks somewhat taken aback. Myself, I can hardly believe her audacity either.

"Don't be silly, Fiera," my mother tinkles with false cheer, "my dear Lord Chuffrey would never say anything to deliberately offendify you. He was only being interested. Anyway," she hurries on, probably trying to cover up the awkward moment, "you might like to be just a teeny bit more sensitive, Normande, darling! After all, it's only recently that Fiera lost her parents – they were... Oh, it's too petrificating to speak of right now! Poor, poor Ettine! And poor Jair, though I never did get to meet him... and now I never shall. Oh, it's all so horrible!"

She looks close to tears. I never knew my mother was any good at acting, but apparently she's a natural. I know that there _is _no Ettine, and there isn't any Jair either (and of course there never has been), but Father laps it all up, his ruddy-cheeked, watery-eyed face turning suddenly solemn.

"I am very sorry for your loss, Fiera," he tells her gravely, and she ducks her head and mutters a hasty 'thank you'. She's nowhere near as good at pulling off this sort of thing as Mother is; anyone can see that there's not a trace of grief on her face. Lucky that Father is much too self-involved to be even the slightest bit observant about the people around him.

"So you came to us for help, then?" I enquire, pretending interest. Fiera shoots a sidelong glance at me that quite clearly says, _as if you don't know why I came here._

"I kind of need a place to stay for a while," she admits, shrugging her shoulders uncomfortably, "I'm going to the Emerald City to find my – um, my... uncle. My mother's brother lives there, you see. Only I've lived in the Vinkus all my life and I've never been to the city before, so I thought that maybe you'd help me find my way around."

So she's going to the Emerald City. Whatever for? I can't help wondering.

"Oh, that would be splendified," Mother shrills, "I really would, but there's a teeny tiny little problem with that, you see."

"A problem?"

"Well, yes. You see, after your moth- I mean, Elphie...erm... went, I convinced the Wizard to leave and go back to where he came from... or, I thought I did, anyway. But he came back – he couldn't get home, he'd said, and there was no reason why he shouldn't stay. The people of Oz still believed his innocence, and so on. So he took back his Wonderful Wizard title and put it about that I was... well, that I was..."

My mother looks close to tears. Despite this, a little thrill of excitement runs through me – I've never heard her talk about this part of her life before.

"That you were what?" Fiera asks eagerly, leaning forward in her seat.

"That I was... a little bit mad. He concocted an absolutely disgusticified rumour that I had lost my senses over Elphie and Fiyero's betrayal of me, and... and... over Fiyero's d...death!"

"Mother!" I interrupt, because she's crying in earnest now. I've never seen her like this – not ever. Usually, she's so annoyingly peppy.

"D...don't, Cassian," she holds up a hand to stop me, "I'm perfectly fine. What was I saying? Oh, yes, so then the whole of Oz thought I was this... this poor dear who had gone insane with grief, and n...nobody would believe a thing I said about the Wizard and all his evilificated plans! I was completely humiliated! I lost everything! Everything!"

By now, she's actually _sobbing._ Father pushes back his chair and comes to stand beside her, looking unsure what to do (he might be rich and all that, but he doesn't have the best people skills, and he hasn't got a clue how to deal with 'fuss', as he calls it).

"There, now," he says weakly, "it's not as bad as all that."

"Oh, stop it!" her voice, so ridiculously high-pitched now, would sound funny if it weren't for the seriousness of the situation. "Stop it! You _know _it's true! Even you, Normande, you only bothered to get to know me in the first place because you took pity on me. I said once that getting my dreams wasn't as magnificied as I thought it would be, but I didn't mean that I didn't _want _all that! Oh, I wish I could go back in time!"

What in Oz...

I swear, I had _no _idea my mother felt like this. I knew that she'd once had big dreams, and that the Wizard had put paid to them when he returned. I knew that he'd made most of Oz think she'd had some sort of nervous breakdown. I knew that even though she was still Glinda the Good, she'd lost all her credibility. But I didn't realise it _mattered _that much. She just seems happy all the time.

Stupid Wizard. And I wanted to work for _him. _I don't _think _so.

"B...but anyway," she continues, sniffling and dabbing at her eyes, "nothing at all I can do about any of that. What I meant to say is, I can't take you to the Emerald City, because I can't show my face there. Can you imagine how embarrassifying that would be? Oh, Oz, no _thank _you! I wish I could help you but..."

I don't know what makes me say it. Maybe it's because I'm so bored living here, with only my parents and the servants for company. Maybe it's because I'm just starting to realise what a terrible person the Wizard really is. But for _some _stupid reason, suddenly I hear myself saying:

"I'll go. I've been to the Emerald City enough times to kind of know my way around. I'll help you, um, find your uncle."

Everyone stares at me. _What? _I feel like asking,_ what's so astonishing about that?_

"Really?" Fiera asks, her blue eyes widening, "_Seriously?"_

At the same moment, Father cuts in: "I don't think that would be advisable, Cassian. We can't have you two young people wandering about the Emerald City alone."

I can take care of myself just fine! For Oz's sake, I should've known Father would be like this!

"But –" I start.

"No buts," Father raises his voice over mine, "it's not happening."

"Don't worry about it," says Fiera, "I'll just go on my own. I was told – er, I mean, I _thought _you might help me, but it doesn't matter. I'll be fine by myself."

Mother gazes at her across the table, still scrubbing at her eyes. "We'll sort something out," she says in such a falsely airy tone that I decide I might need to rethink what I said earlier about her being a surprisingly good actress, "don't you worry. But you _must _stay here with us for a few days – I promise we'll show you a splendified time!"

Fiera hesitates, but only for a second. "Ok," she agrees amiably, "I guess I could. I don't see why not."

Father is nodding his overripe tomato of a head in agreement. "Wonderful, wonderful," he says affectedly, "now shall we all actually _eat _our dinners before they get cold? Yes? Wonderful!"

While Father is tucking into his food with gusto, and Mother is still dabbing at her face and trying to compose herself, Fiera catches my eye.

"Tonight?" she mouths, her own blue eyes sparkling. I don't have to ask what she's talking about.

I give a barely perceptible shake of my head. "Tomorrow night," I whisper back. I need time to talk to her, find out what in the name of Lurline (who I'm sure doesn't exist, but anyway) is going on. I want to know what she's planning.

But I know that to be completely honest, it makes no difference. Whatever she tells me, I'll be going to the Emerald City.

Away from here.

Finally.

**A/N: Cassian's going with Fiera to the Emerald City! Here's where the **_**real **_**action begins. The review button loves you, please love it back! :D**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: So, back to the Emerald City we go! Hope you guys enjoy this chapter, but I'll give you a little warning in advance – you may find Loret's dream a bit disturbing (it's not terribly bad, I'm not depraved or anything like that) but if you're bothered by the grotesque, I suppose you can skip the first part of this chapter.**

Chapter Twelve

A Brief Interlude

_In Loret's dream, she is at work in the milliner's on Baum Street again. She feels soft felt and smooth, stiff feathers beneath her deft fingers. It is a ladies' hat she is working on, gaudy and ostentatious, with the brightest of colours and the finest selection of materials. A sigh pushes its way between Loret's lightly rouged lips – when will her shift be over?_

_The scene changes. She is out of doors, now, in the Emerald City's very own Balloon Square ("It's where the Wonderful Wizard of Oz made his entrance, you know!") with the midday sun beating insistently down on the top of her head. She is one of many, surrounded by a rabble of the most diverse bunch of people and Animals she's ever seen. Many are brandishing signs and banners that they have made themselves; on Loret's right, the huge sign held aloft by a tottering Munchkin man reads: THE WITCH ISN'T WICKED – SUPPORT ELPHABA IN HER CAMPAIGN FOR ANIMAL RIGHTS! The crowd are a pushing, shoving cacophony, but they are united. They are one._

_It is Loret herself who stands at the forefront, her right hand curved around the handle of a megaphone. She is the voice of the people. In her clear, high voice she calls out: "People of Oz, your Wonderful Wizard isn't as wonderful as he'd have everyone believe! He's a liar! He's a fraud! He's a persecutor of Animals! Now is the time to question everything you've been made to believe – LONG LIVE THE WITCH!"_

"_LONG LIVE THE WITCH!" The other protesters echo, one overpowering voice reaching out in all directions, "LONG LIVE ELPHABA!"_

_But all at once, so silently that for a few moments they go completely unnoticed, the Wizard's officials are there. The Gale Force. Their grim faces and pristine, familiar uniforms draw up a volley of frantic shouting, and the people roar into motion, ramming into one another in their haste to exit the square._

_Loret stands her ground, still calling out, "Long live Elphaba!" into her megaphone, her voice rising almost to a screech. When the Gale Force reach her, she fights, lashing out ferociously, thwacking one man forcefully in the face with the megaphone. She kicks and claws and spits like a wildcat, but there are simply too many of them. She is surrounded. Cannot move. Cannot breathe. Cannot cry out. And then the faces of the Gale Force begin to melt grotesquely into waxy, featureless lumps, and reform into half-baked resemblances of the people she cares about. Her parents, her best friend, her lover. Their eyes peer out of the mess of the soldiers' faces and their lips push forward from the knobbly, misshapen flesh._

_They begin to laugh._

_It is a shrill, unworldly sound like nothing Loret has ever heard. It stabs at her ears. It has form and impetus, pushing against her head with an infinite amount of unceasing pressure. In a few moments, she is sure, her skull will crack right open. And still they laugh, louder, and louder, and – _

_**-o0o0o0o0o-**_

– _And Loret is awake. Shuddering, gasping, sweating, she bolts upright, her breath bursting raggedly out of her chest. Her eyes, wide and glassy with panic, dart this way and that as she attempts to convince herself that it's all right. The dream is not real. She is in the upper circle of the unused theatre, and the lumpy bundles clustered around her are only sleeping Ghosts, not the warped bodies of soldiers._

You're all right, _she tells herself wordlessly, just as she has done on so many other nights since the day she was captured, _it's only a dream.

"_It's all right," there it is again, that voice! A man's voice, cracked and whispery from years of disuse. She's only heard it once before, yet it's so familiar to her, "It was just a dream. That's all, just a dream. You're safe." She feels the tentative touch of an arm slipping around her shoulders, pulling her gently close in a way that is – regrettably – comforting rather than romantic._

_Loret twists her head round to look at him, squinting into the indigo-grey darkness. She can't see him clearly; he is a mere shadow, indistinct and seeming only half real, but she knows nonetheless who has woken in the night to reassure her._

_Fiyero._

"_What were you dreaming about?" he asks, though of course he knows that she cannot reply, "Are you dreaming of home?"_

Close enough, _Loret thinks, with some surprise. She dips a brief nod._

"_Who did they steal you away from?" Fiyero wonders, "Have you got a husband? Children? Parents? I hadn't seen my parents in quite some time when it happened to me. How could I have, when we were in hiding? Fae didn't seem mind living in our own private little world, just us, but it used to annoy the hell out of me sometimes. We had two kids, and another on the way, and we kept fighting over whether or not to try and cross the border to get out of Oz. Fae thought it would be safer for us all to stay where we were; I thought it would be safer if we got out of there..." he paused for several long moments, drifting off into a reverie. Loret let her head rest against his shoulder, beginning to relax slightly._

"_They must be all right," he carried on, "we'd have heard if they'd been caught, wouldn't we? We'd know. So they must be ok. I wonder if they ever did cross the border. I wonder whether Fae had a boy or a girl. How old would that kid be now?... About eleven? I don't even know how much time's gone by. Maybe Liir and Nessa are almost grown up now. I dream about them, you know, all the time. What are they like? Do they look more like me or more like Fae? Are they happy, wherever they are? I think they must be..."_

_Loret smiles. _Typical man, going on and on about himself and his life... _But she doesn't mind. In fact, she likes to listen. She listens until her eyelids grow heavy and she cannot stop them sliding shut. She thirstily laps up the details of his world, until without even fully realising it, she slips into sleep._

_And for the first time in years, there are no nightmares._

_**-o0o0o0o0o0o-**_

_Talking never used to be so much effort. His throat feels sore and scratchy, and he stumbles over words, searching for a way to voice things and feelings he's long since forgotten how to put into words. For one of the first times in Oz only knows how long, he's fully aware of his surroundings. Everything sings with a sort of... now-ness. This is the moonlight, and this is the floor with its threadbare red carpet beneath him, and that is Loret Njavak's slumber-heavy head on his shoulder. He doesn't know what it is about her (she's certainly no Elphaba) but somehow she's woken him up from the strange waking dream he's been living in._

_At peace for once, Loret sleeps on, but had she been awake, she would have heard that sound of hollow loss, that quiet break of a heart that is coming to terms with what is real, and she would have felt that the top of her head was wet with quiet tears._


End file.
